


HBIC of Hornet

by LittleMousling



Series: HBIC [1]
Category: Pod Save America (RPF)
Genre: Banter, First Time, Light BDSM, Light Bondage, M/M, Post-election spontaneity, Roughhousing, Sarcasm, Tickling
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-08
Updated: 2017-06-08
Packaged: 2018-11-11 10:26:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,612
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11146539
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LittleMousling/pseuds/LittleMousling
Summary: It's bad enough they have to deal with the outcome of the election; now Jon wants to abandon Tommy to go get laid, too? Unacceptable.





	HBIC of Hornet

**Author's Note:**

> Y'all, these guys definitely have search columns for themselves on twitter. (Or anyway Lovett does FOR SURE.) I beg you: be verrrrrry discreet. Thank you for doing your part to maintain the fourth wall!

Denial, anger, grief—there’s another one before acceptance, Tommy thinks. Bargaining. Denial, anger, bargaining, grief. He’s not sure about grief, actually. Isn’t the whole process grief? It’s been a long time since Intro to Psych. 

It doesn’t much matter, anyway. They're all pretty well stuck at anger. 

It’s been three days, three shitty, crow-eating days. Tommy wants to turn back the clock in about sixteen ways. If they’d been less confident, they could have helped change the outcome. If they’d stayed in politics, maybe they’d have been the ones pushing for a better campaign. If he hadn’t broken up with Hanna, maybe he wouldn’t be working through all this shit on Jon’s couch. 

Both of them are on Jon’s couch, just at the moment. Jon’s perched on the arm, feet up on the cushions—Tommy’s not going to say anything, it’s not his couch to worry about—ranting. “You’re preaching to the choir,” Tommy tells him, not for the first time today or even in this conversation, and this time Jon even listens to him, drawing to a slow stop. He slumps forward, elbows on his knees, hands on the back of his neck.

“I just—I’m so fucking mad,” he says.

“Yeah,” Tommy says. 

“I need to get laid,” Jon says, and Tommy blinks at the non-sequitur. “That’s the ticket. Hand me my phone.”

Tommy picks up Jon’s phone, but doesn’t hand it over. “We could watch a movie or something,” he says. “Or go for a run. We could pick Pundit up from Emily and take her with us. Or get wasted. That might help.” 

“No, sorry, you’ll have to get over whatever straight trauma you have from sharing that wall with me in DC, this is an occasion that requires Recon.”

Tommy is clearly behind the times; he thought the app of choice was Grindr. “I’m not traumatized.” He’s stalling. He can feel himself stalling, and he can’t seem to stop it. “Look, you don’t want to leave me to be angry all by myself, right?”

“You can watch a movie,” Jon says. “Take Pundit for a run. Get wasted.” 

Tommy’s annoyed now. He tucks the phone in his back pocket, shifts to face Jon more fully. “C’mon, just stay here with me instead.” 

“Okay, I’m not saying pushy Tommy isn’t an exciting new side to your personality, but seriously, give me my phone,” Jon says. He tips forward until he’s kneeling on the couch, and Tommy shifts back away from him, just in time for Jon’s hand to graze his thigh instead of getting the phone. “This is ridiculous!” 

Jon grabs for him again, and Tommy launches up off the couch, darting into the kitchen. He stifles the urge to laugh as Jon comes running at him, and does his best duck-and-dash under Jon’s arms. 

The phone’s not safe where it is, with Jon running behind him, so he transfers it to his front pocket as he dashes up the stairs towards Jon’s bedroom, slams the door behind him.

“I’m telling Favs about this!”

“He won’t believe you!” Tommy shouts back, and hears Jon’s footsteps outside the door. There’s no lock, but Tommy plasters himself against it, bracing his bare feet against the hardwood. Jon’s pressing back, and, as is often the case with Jon, he’s stronger than Tommy expected.

Jon shoves hard enough that Tommy has to reposition to keep the door shut. “It’s only a matter of time, Vietor. I’m getting that phone and I’m getting fucked and there’s nothing you can do about it.” He’s laughing, too, now, smacking his palm against the door. “You can run from the gay agenda but you can’t hide! Not when you’re sleeping on my couch!”

“When your hookup gets here I’ll just tell him you’re cheating on me!” Tommy calls back, and Jon’s laugh in response is startled and warm, the happiest he’s sounded in eighty miserable hours. “I can sell it, Lovett! Just you wait!”

“I can’t believe they let you in the Situation Room,” Jon says, and they’re not even really shouting now, not even really pushing on the door. “I mean, it’s a wonder that the country survived that. I’m increasingly concerned about Obama’s judgment. I think I should go on Fox and talk about his terrible decision-making.”

Tommy yanks the door open. “Hey, now, let’s not get out of hand—” and then Jon’s tackling him backward, both of them landing hard on the bed, and wriggling his hand under Tommy towards his back pockets.

“You’re so fucking predictable,” Jon says. “One bad word about Obama and you fold like a cheap rug. Just incredible. Where the fuck is my phone?” His hands are deep in Tommy’s back pockets and he curls his fingers up, and Tommy squeaks. He can’t help himself. It’s possibly the least manly noise he’s ever made, and he squeezes his eyes shut, waiting for Jon to make fun of him. 

Jon’s hands still, and Tommy carefully opens one eye to look at him. “Uh—right, sorry, it just struck me that I probably shouldn’t be groping you on my bed,” Jon says. He pulls his hands free and pushes himself up onto them. 

“No, uh, you can,” Tommy hears himself say, and feels heat racing across his cheeks. “I mean—” He stops. He’s pretty sure he already said what he meant.

Jon’s staring at him, just staring, silent for once, and Tommy’s mouth is dry and his face is hot and when he licks his lips, Jon’s eyes follow the movement. 

“Hypothesis,” Jon says suddenly. “The election has broken you, possibly on a permanent basis, and we should maybe get you some help. Some specialized treatment. A therapy dog, maybe. Or one of those monkeys that brings you your protein shakes and brushes your hair.”

“Hypothesis,” Tommy says. “If you really want to get laid, but I don’t want you to leave, there’s probably a solution to be found.”

“That’s not really a hypothesis,” Jon objects, but he doesn’t get any further because Tommy’s reaching up and tugging him down by the back of the neck.

Jon’s mouth has always been easy to stare at. It’s not something Tommy’s done consciously; his gaze just settles there. Jon’s mouth is full and soft and it looks like a comfortable place to bed down for the night. It looks, Tommy’s caught himself thinking once or twice or a hundred times, lush and inviting. 

It tastes even better. 

“Oh god this is happening,” Jon mumbles against Tommy’s lips, and Tommy kisses him harder to shut him up, scrapes his teeth against the warm plush expanse of Jon’s lower lip. Jon’s shifting lower, out of his hands-and-knees crouch but not quite on top of Tommy yet. 

Tommy wants that, and tonight’s been rewarding his base urges unusually well, so he just takes it, wraps an arm around Jon’s waist and yanks him down. Jon groans, and then pushes back up so Tommy can’t get any of the friction he wants. He pulls him back down, and Jon pushes back up. “Should I not—?” Tommy says, awkwardly, into Jon’s jaw. “Are we not going to, um.”

“We definitely are,” Jon says, but his hips are still in the air. “We definitely, definitely are.” He scrapes his teeth across Tommy’s throat, and Tommy _needs_ that fucking friction. He rolls them, gets Jon under him and a thigh up between Jon’s, and grinds down. “Ah, fuck, yes.” 

Jon’s voice is gritty, and he’s pulling Tommy’s shirt off, yanking it up Tommy’s back and letting his fingernails catch on Tommy’s skin. Tommy leans up just enough to let him, and to pull Jon’s up around his chest, at least, so they’ve got an expanse of bare skin to press together. Jon’s hands are tracing all over his back, and he keeps hitting Tommy’s ticklish spots too lightly, making Tommy shiver and jerk away. 

“Stop that,” Tommy says, reaching back to smack at his hands, but—Jon being Jon—that makes him do it more, until Tommy’s writhing. He finally grabs Jon’s hands and pins them down, and Jon’s whole face changes, going lax and pleased and—

“Okay, is this a thing?” Tommy asks him. Jon doesn’t answer, and Tommy squeezes his wrists. “You can tell me if it’s a thing. I’ve seen 50 Shades of Gray. The first one. Half of the first one.”

“Wow, you’re an expert, then,” Jon says. He tugs against Tommy’s grip, and Tommy lets go. Jon frowns. “Fine, yes, it’s a thing, it’s a thing we could do, yes. Don’t make me talk about it.”

Tommy raises both eyebrows. “There’s a subject in the world that you don’t want to talk about? Jeez. Who would’ve guessed that?” He tries to remember the movie. “Do you have a red room?”

“That’s not a thing,” Jon says. “I mean, it is, but—ew. Talk about pretentious fuckery. Just put some discreet hooks in the wall like everybody else.” Tommy can’t help but glance up, looking for discreet hooks, and Jon huffs a laugh. “I don’t—that’s not even really my—can we stop talking about this?”

“No,” Tommy says, leaning down to kiss the soft skin under Jon’s collarbone, where his shirt is rucked up. “Tell me what you want. We’ve already done a bunch of what I want.” 

Jon’s hands come up to Tommy’s elbows, thumbs brushing his biceps, back and forth. “What you want is to make out? I mean, I don’t want to judge your taste or anything, but you definitely left me with the impression that I could expect a bit more in the way of dick action.”

Tommy snorts. “I meant—I wanted you to stay, so I stole your phone. And I wanted to, uh, grind on you, so I rolled you over. And I wanted you to stop tickling me, so—hey!” Jon’s tickling him again, up under his arms now, laughing at him, and Tommy doesn’t think, just grabs Jon’s hands again and slams them to the pillow over his head.

“Fuck,” Jon says. “See, just—we don’t have to talk about it. You just do what you want.”

“It seems like I’m doing what you want,” Tommy points out, because he’s starting to get the picture here.

“It’s a complex dynamic,” Jon sniffs. “I don’t expect you to grasp the nuance on your first go-round,” and before he can get any further with any of that, Tommy’s switching his hold on Jon’s wrists so he can put one hand over Jon’s mouth. 

“This is where I gag you, right?” Tommy asks, and Jon’s face lights up. Tommy hears Jon say something muffled that he’d be willing to bet quite a lot was “with your dick.”

Well. Tommy can work with that. 

“Why do I have the feeling if I tell you not to move, you’ll do a tarantella or something?” Tommy asks. He doesn’t take his hand off Jon’s mouth, which doesn’t stop Jon from trying to respond to him. “I’m gonna improvise. I guess kick me if you don’t like it.” 

Jon’s shirt is still half on him, and Tommy releases his mouth long enough to tug it up over his arms, pausing when he reaches Jon’s hands. There’s surely a way to tie him up with this. He tries it unsuccessfully, and Jon, sensing freedom, yanks his hands down and reaches for Tommy’s khakis.

It’s hard to object to that, honestly, but Tommy has a mission here, and he’s always been good at staying on course. He twists the shirt in his hands until it’s more like a rope, then grabs Jon again and shoves him back. “Fuck, you can do that all day, you big strong man, you,” Jon says, grinning at him, and Tommy leans down to kiss the smirk off his face before he focuses on tying Jon up. 

Tying Jon up. This is not at all where Tommy thought today was going. Although they’re probably all going to die on January 20th, so. “Gather ye rosebuds while ye may,” he says, and Jon hums and leans down to lick one of Tommy’s nipples. 

“Not my first-choice rosebud metaphor, but unless I can talk you into sitting on my face, I guess this is good,” Jon says, and Christ, Tommy really needs to gag him. 

“Is this your actual bedroom technique? Annoy men until they manhandle you? Does that work?”

Jon bites him, and Tommy gasps, pushing Jon’s head back and away from him. “Sure, it works,” Jon says. “But also I list myself as a bratty sub on Recon, so it’s not usually a surprise for anyone.” 

Apparently now they’re talking about it. Maybe Tommy can hold off on the gagging for a minute. “Bratty,” Tommy says, rolling the word over in his mouth. “I knew there was a good word for you.” 

“Shh,” Jon says. “Just—c’mere and make me suck your dick or something. Or do you want to fuck me? Because you can. If you know what you’re doing. Not if you’ve never done it before. It’s more of a skill than people realize. Well, straight people. It’s more of a skill than straight people realize.”

“I’ve done it before,” Tommy says. He’s finally got the knot done like he wants it around Jon’s wrists, and now he can let himself touch, stroking across Jon’s belly and his broad shoulders. 

“Ass, though, specifically. I don’t want any confusion here. It’s not remotely the same thing as va-jay-jay.”

“Jesus!” Tommy laughs. “Don’t say va—don’t say that. I understood what you were asking.” He leans down to get his mouth on Jon’s skin, kissing the line of his sternum, then farther down, where the hairs gather around his bellybutton. 

Jon lifts a knee, his hips tilting up. “Feel free, then,” he says. “My body is yours, etc. Make free with my favours.” 

That sounds about right to Tommy. Jon’s skin smells warmer down here, and he breathes in deep, peeling Jon’s shorts down. He’s wearing electric blue boxer-briefs with a sheen to them and a weird, horizontal fly. Tommy had been planning just to pull them off, too, but there’s something gorgeous about Jon in them. His thighs look broad like this; they make Tommy want to run his hands over them, and the knowledge that he can is dizzying.

“You can, uh, you can feel free to get past PG-13 anytime now,” Jon says, but Tommy ignores him, much too busy fondling Jon’s thick thighs and the way his hips jut under the soft fabric.

“I like these,” Tommy says. “They look nice on you.”

Jon snorts. “Oh, well, _nice_ , that’s every man’s dream, to hear he looks _nice_ in his underwear. Just exactly what I’m going for.”

Tommy bites him, hard on the inside of one thigh, and Jon sucks in a ragged breath, muscles tightening. “Motherfucker,” Jon says, and then, when Tommy looks up, “That wasn’t a complaint! Please feel free to work out all your sublimated anger on me with your teeth! Just picture Trump and, you know, bite him!”

“Okay, _now_ I’m gagging you,” Tommy says, but he doesn’t move from his spot. He bites Jon again, instead, almost on the same spot, pulling the skin with his teeth, because he likes the way Jon’s whole body tensed when he did it last time, and he likes the little breathy noises Jon is making. 

He gets distracted, maybe, listening to Jon and feeling his quads move, because when he pulls back, the skin he’s been worrying is swollen and dark red. “Oh,” he says, nervous now, and reaches out to touch.

Jon moans. There’s just no other word for it. He sounds like a porn actor going for an award. “Oh, that’s—good, then?” Tommy says, and strokes his finger over the surface of Jon’s skin, feels the way it’s hot and soft.

“Fucking—yes,” Jon says. “You can, um. You can press harder. Or, like. Just a thought, here, just spitballing, just brainstorming, you know, but you could also rub your dick there. Just an idea.” 

There’s a sudden buzzing in Tommy’s ears, and also in Tommy’s balls. “You are a menace, Lovett. You’re going to give me a heart attack.”

“You could still gag me,” Jon says in what he must think is a helpful tone. Tommy … actually and truly doesn’t want to, although he’s pretty sure being turned on by Jon’s ranting is a sign of a serious problem. Also, it seems like a bad idea for their future in podcasting. Favs is easygoing, but there are limits, and popping a boner during recording would definitely be on Favs’ list of inappropriate work behaviors.

Tommy presses his face into Jon’s thigh, nosing up into the heat of the bruise, and takes a deep breath to center himself. And then another, because if Jon smelled good before—now he stinks of sex, and Tommy nuzzles up higher, searching out the source as though it’s going to be a surprise. 

Jon’s got a wet patch over the head of his cock, now, where it’s distending his electric-blue underwear, and Tommy tastes it. He’s disappointed to only get the flavor—such as it is—of fabric, and he finally, reluctantly, peels the briefs off Jon’s hips. “Ah, Christ,” he murmurs, almost hoping Jon doesn’t hear the praise. It’s just that Jon’s—perfect, basically. Perfect to Tommy, anyway. He has been for a long time, even if Tommy wasn’t really thinking of him like this, and now Tommy can’t take his eyes off Jon. 

“Looking’s free but touching’ll cost you, big boy,” Jon says, weakly, and Tommy tips his head back to grin up at him.

“This is wild, right?” Tommy watches Jon’s expression lighten, the way Jon rolls his top lip into his mouth like he’s fighting a smile.

Jon shrugs, then, putting on a character. “I suppose, if you’re not very worldly, this might seem out of the ordinary. Whereas I, the rogue of Recon—”

“Alliteration, nice.”

“I, the rogue of Recon, the gadfly of Grindr, the HBIC of … that one that starts with an H—”

“Not quite as impressive. Should’ve stopped while you were ahead.”

“Hornet! It’s Hornet. So there. _Anyway_ , I, the HBIC of Hornet, I could never find it ‘wild’ to have a cuddly Ken-doll dreamboat staring at my dick." He pauses to breathe. "Wait, pretend I called you a WASP there. It works better with Hornet.”

Tommy snickers, yanking Jon down the bed until he can rest his chin on Jon’s stomach. “Do you want notes on that, or do you want to tell me where you keep your personal lubricant?”

“Very dainty, aren’t we,” Jon says, and tips his chin in the direction of one of the nightstands. “Top drawer only. Don’t risk the traumatic mental images that lay inside the other two.”

Tommy finds a condom easily, but there’s half a dozen little tubs and tubes in the drawer. “Which one is, like … the best?” 

“White one,” Jon says, and then when Tommy grabs it, “No, other white one.”

“They’re basically all white,” Tommy protests.

“Much like Congress, but more useful.” Jon wriggles up and identifies the one he wants by name, and Tommy pushes the drawer closed. “Speaking of Congress, you’re still wearing pants.”

Tommy is not going to give Jon the satisfaction of asking the connection, but he does stand up long enough to finish stripping. Jon gives him a long, leering once-over, and Tommy can feel a blush rising again. He quickly settles himself back on top of Jon, both of them sucking in a breath when they’re laid out against each other. 

"So you've done this before, you say," Jon says, and Tommy figures he can safely answer that with action, tugging one of Jon's thighs up and out to make it easy for Tommy's fingers to slip up the back of it.

Jon's hole is hot against his fingertips, and he presses enough to make Jon shift into his touch before he pops the cap on the lube.

"That's, ah, that's nice," Jon says when Tommy starts working a slick finger into him.

"Oh, 'nice' is okay now, is it?" Tommy says, and Jon laughs. It makes his hole tighten around Tommy's finger, and now all Tommy can think about is how it's going to feel to fuck up into that, into _Jon_.

He's been hard, he's been wanting, but now he hasn't got half his mind on banter; his everything is focused on opening Jon up for his cock. 

Jon's on the same page, thighs spreading more, hips tilting up, chest heaving. "You can—you can—anytime, now, really—"

That's enough for Tommy. Jon's been doing this a lot longer than Tommy has; he probably knows his own limits. He pulls his fingers out, Jon groaning, and rolls the condom down, stroking himself a few times to power through the cold tightness of it. "You can do that for me again anytime," Jon mumbles, almost inaudible, and Tommy ducks his head away from the scrutiny. He can't tell if the burn he feels is embarrassment or arousal. Maybe it's both.

Tommy rises up on his knees to get a pillow from above Jon's head, and Jon helpfully lifts his hips to let Tommy slide it under them. "Okay, I concede you've done this before," Jon says, and then he's gone silent as Tommy pushes into him, rocking his hips in the tiniest increments he can stand. 

"Fuck, you feel amazing," Tommy gasps, and one of Jon's legs comes up around him. He lifts it over his arm so Jon doesn't have to strain, turns his head to drop a lax kiss on the nearest bit of skin.

It feels like it's a thousand degrees in here, sweat dripping down his sides and a sheen of it on Jon's belly. Tommy hadn't even noticed the heat until now, but it's fogging his brain, narrowing his field of vision to just Jon's flushed face, his open mouth. His lush lower lip, which Tommy probably can't kiss without losing his new, slow rhythm, but which he can stare at as much as he wants, now.

There's movement out of the corner of his eye, just Jon adjusting his knee on Tommy's arm, but it makes him look down the length of Jon's leg, and his eye catches on the bruise he left there. 

It takes a moment, and one particularly well-angled thrust, based on Jon's grunt, but he gets his left hand free and across his body to push his fingertips into the bruise. "Ah, fuck, yes, there, that's it," Jon babbles, and his hips rock up into Tommy's. Tommy looks down to see the way Jon's cock is bumping against his belly, head of it rubbing on every thrust, and keeps his hand on the bruise instead. Jon seems to agree with his decision; he's pushing his leg towards Tommy, hard enough that Tommy almost loses his balance. 

Not in the mood to be pushed around, Tommy pokes him, hard, in the center of the bruise. That works: Jon's leg goes slack on Tommy's arm, and Jon starts gasping, straining, bringing his bound wrists down so he can bite down on the coiled fabric of his shirt. "Fucking give it to me," Tommy hears, so loud it's barely muffled by the fabric. 

It sounds like they're both on the same page, then. Tommy shifts Jon’s leg up to his shoulder and gets his right hand on Jon’s thigh instead, thumb circling around to dig into the bruise, and settles his left back on the bed. Braced better now, he can really thrust, really give them both what they’re desperate for. “Jesus, Lovett. Jon. This is—you’re—fucking perfect,” and he is, he’s fucking perfect, every inch of him but especially and definitely his tight ass. 

Jon must be close, because he doesn’t say anything to that, not even “I know.” He's still biting the shirt, and Tommy misses being able to stare at his mouth, but his eyes aren’t really focusing anymore, anyway. Tommy's all hip and thigh and cock right now, and his right thumb digging into Jon’s skin; nothing else matters. 

He squeezes hard on Jon’s thigh, and Jon chokes out a long, stuttering breath, leg tightening over Tommy’s shoulder as he comes. Tommy watches the splatter of it, glistening on Jon’s belly, and kicks up his pace, hips rabbiting as he drives toward the finish. 

“So fucking good, Tommy, yeah,” Jon says, power of speech coming back to him, and Tommy can see his mouth again, red and soft and, and—

Tommy sinks down over Jon when he comes, Jon’s leg slipping off to the side. He reaches down to hold the condom as he pulls out, but as soon as he’s got it off, he lets himself collapse fully onto Jon, face in Jon’s neck. 

“So that happened,” Jon says, and Tommy feels his fingers running through the hair at Tommy’s temples. They’re very gentle. It’s nice. “This is not really how it went in any of my daydreams. I had very good speeches all practiced and planned out about how mutual masturbation really isn’t that gay, it’s practiced in prep schools and locker rooms all over the Western world—probably the Eastern world, too, I don’t know—and so you don’t need to freak out or anything, it doesn’t mean anything, but, uh. Assfucking, let’s be honest, that’s pretty gay.”

“Mmph.” Tommy doesn’t know how Jon’s got this much energy left to talk. He should have fucked him harder, clearly. 

“Very articulate, thank you for that. I’m just saying, it’s—you know, regardless, you don’t need to freak out. I won’t, uh, I don’t have expectations or anything, hormones get the best of you, it’s a stressful time, and, you know, it’s incredibly difficult to resist me at the best of times, much less when you’re all emotional about the probable end of the world at the hands of a, an anthropomorphized Orange Julius. I get it. I’m very sexy, sometimes people just can’t help—”

Tommy interrupts Jon with his mouth. It at least muffles him. 

“Right, well,” Jon says when Tommy finally finishes kissing him. “You know my hands are still tied up, right?”

“Yup,” Tommy says, and kisses the spot under Jon’s ear, shifting his weight off to the side now rather than directly on top of Jon. “Keep stroking my hair and I might untie you.”

“Untie me and I can stroke your hair much more efficiently,” Jon counters. Tommy just smiles at him. Jon’s so close that Tommy can see the hint of stubble coming in, the little flecks in his eyes. Jon licks his lips. “Um, you’re staring. Just so you know.”

Tommy smiles wider. His cheeks hurt from how much he’s smiling. “This is the first good thing that’s happened in three days,” he says. “I actually forgot about everything for, like, ten minutes in there.” 

“Ten whole minutes. I’m a miracle worker. They should market my ass as the new escapism drug for the masses.” 

“Or not,” Tommy says, holding Jon's gaze. “You could maybe just keep that power between us.”

Jon sucks a breath between his teeth. “Wow, is this the exclusivity talk? Wow. Straight people are so weird. This is, like, I don’t even know if you give good head, and you’re asking me to forsake all others? I may have to think about this, Vietor. I’d be depriving WeHo—really, all of Southern California—of the pleasures of—the _electric_ pleasures of one Jon Lovett, straight shooter, respected on all sides.” 

“Okay, you’re right, I’ve made a terrible mistake,” Tommy tells him, but he can’t keep a straight face enough to sell it, not even for a moment. He’s too happy and warm and sated and _happy_. “Can’t believe I thought this was a good idea.”

“I know you’re being sarcastic, but I have to tell you, that strikes right at the heart of my deep insecurities—” Tommy kisses him again. It works, again. Tommy could get used to this.

They part, after a while. Tommy rests his cheek on Jon’s shoulder. Jon resumes stroking his hair. “Everything is still terrible, overall,” Jon offers. “So, uh, I mean, we should probably take nice things where we find them.”

“That makes sense,” Tommy says. “Plus I like being able to shut you up like that.”

“Favs is gonna be thrilled with your new technique,” Jon says, but he can’t keep the pleased look off his face. “Also, our guests.”

“I’ll try to keep it to a minimum during recording,” Tommy promises. “Just, like, once or twice a show, tops.” 

There’s a noise from downstairs, the front door slamming, and then Pundit barking and skittering across the living room. “Guys! I got takeout!” 

“Uh, just a minute!” Jon shouts back. “Don’t come upstairs!” 

“Good work, that won’t raise any suspicions,” Tommy says, laughing. “Not at all weird.” 

Pundit runs through the open door and launches herself onto the bed, and Tommy attempts to keep her from jumping on anyone’s vulnerable parts. “Untie me!” Jon hisses.

“Where’s Tommy?” Favs calls. It sounds like he’s still downstairs, at least. 

“Uh, he’s in the shower!” Jon yells. “Go get in the fucking shower,” this part whispered at Tommy, who's busy untying him. 

Tommy huffs a laugh. “Favs, I’m up in Jon’s room. Don’t come upstairs or you’ll see stuff you don’t want to see. Give us a minute.”

There’s a pause, and then, “Oh! Oh wow! I have to tell Emily, she’s going to die! Wow! Congratulations? Are congratulations in order? Is this a thing? This has to be a thing, right, Tommy’s been pining for ages. Sorry, Tommy!”

Tommy tips his head back against the bed, Pundit clutched to his chest. His face is hot again. He’s increasingly concerned that too much blushing might have serious medical implications of some kind. Circulatory problems? Burst blood vessels? He should google it.

“Wow,” Jon mimics, soft in Tommy’s ear. “Pining for _ages_. This is so embarrassing for you.”

“I could gag you,” Tommy tells him, only half-joking. “Have fun explaining that to Favs.”

“You would never scar Favs like that. He’s innocent like a puppy. Trust me on that, Emily and I have gotten drunk together a lot.”

"Mm-hm. Speaking of innocence and not-innocence, you gonna tell me more about what you like?"

"Suppose I show you my Recon profile and then we never talk about it.” Jon squirms as he says it, avoiding Tommy's gaze.

"You can tell the Internet but not me?" 

Jon scoffs. "I don't care what they think."

Tommy thinks he can grasp that distinction. "I'll let you get drunk before we talk about it," he offers, and Jon snorts but doesn't object. 

Downstairs, there’s the faint sound of Favs on the phone to Emily. “You won’t believe—Lovett and Tommy! They’re together! I think! Hang on,” and, much louder, “So are you together?”

“Yes!” Tommy shouts. 

“What, I don’t even get a vote?” Jon leans further over Tommy, raises an eyebrow. “What kind of democracy is this?”

“It’s not, it’s a cheerocracy.” Tommy watches Jon’s face light up at the joke, and pulls him down again to kiss that gorgeous mouth. Pundit gets a little squished, but she puts up with it well. 

They kiss for a few long, delicious minutes, until Jon pulls away with a sigh. “We should get dressed and go let Favs be obnoxiously positive at us, probably.” 

“You first,” Tommy says, but he rolls over and gets up, starts gathering his clothes. Pundit, annoyed perhaps by the squishing, runs back out of the room and downstairs. “So maybe we have dinner with Favs and then we kick him out and find out if I give good enough head for exclusivity?” 

Jon puts a hand to his chest, makes a shocked noise. “How very dirty-minded you are.” He breaks, smile dimpling his cheeks. “Yes. That sounds like an excellent plan. What a brilliant strategic mind you possess. They should give you one of those fancy White House jobs or something, really make use of your brain.”

“I think I’m good with the job I have now,” Tommy says, pulling his shirt over his head. “Especially now I know how to deal with my most annoying coworker.”

“Hurtful,” Jon tells him, pulling those bright blue boxer-briefs back on. Tommy still wants to play with that weird fly. Maybe tonight. “Very hurtful, Vietor.” 

“I’ll make it up to you,” Tommy says. “Meet you downstairs?”

Jon reaches out to reel Tommy in by the front of his shirt. “Listen, though, with all seriousness—yes. You can suck my dick anytime. Consider that an open invitation. Tonight, tomorrow, really any occasion you decide you want to make dreams come true, just feel free. Arbor day. Earth day. Groundhog day. Cinco de—” 

Tommy kisses him. “I’ve created a monster,” he says. “You’re going to be worse than ever. It’s positive reinforcement every time I kiss you, isn’t it?” 

“It really is,” Jon says. “But you like it, anyway.” 

“God help me.” Tommy kisses him again, and pushes him back on the bed. “Now shush, or Favs’ll be down there waiting for another hour.” 

Jon mimes zipping his lips. Tommy laughs, steps out, and closes the door behind him. 

He’s still got Jon’s phone in his pants pocket. "Favs, do you know Lovett's phone passcode? I'm gonna delete all his hookup apps."

All he hears from the bedroom is a snort of laughter. He's going to take that as permission.


End file.
